The House of Shamen

My eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness as we follow Diego and a small boy down a dark ally in San Pablo. I glance over my shoulder, straining my eyes, attempting to see if any silhouettes appear to be closing in behind. "?esta lejos?" (is it far?) I ask with my limited vocabulary. "No...no...esta aqui...mi casa esta aqui" (no...no...it's here...my house is here), Domingo replies, sensing that we are probably nervous about following a man we just met into the bowels of an unfamiliar village.

Danny, Jane, and I hopped in the back of a Toyota pickup a few minutes after 7p.m. with the intention of checking out the fiesta of San Pablo a little ways around the lake. Danny is my new housmate, also studying at the Coopertiva Spanish School. Jane is a student at another school in town. Along with the tuc-tucs, (little three wheeled vehicles) pickup trucks are the most common forms of a taxi. The often dilapidated trucks are outfitted with tall racks designed to maximize the number of standing passengers in the bed. In a cattle like fashion it is not uncommon for fifteen people to be crammed into one of these people haulers with a few brave souls hanging off the back. After 15 or so minutes of swerving around the slower tucs-tucs on the poorly maintained roads we arrive In San Pablo.

We stroll into the the mercado. I have not seen any rain since I have arrived, but the local street merchants have tented the entire calle with tarps anyway. Unfortunately Guatemalans don't take into account the few gringo visitors that may attend their festival, so most tarps seem to be hung to accommodate the height of a twelve year old american boy. With our heads cocked to one side and our hair scrubbing the underside of the cover we wandered through the seemingly endless string of vendors selling everything from jeans and cookware to homemade candies and tacos. The three of us tower over the Guatamaltecas like Andre the giant in a room full of fourth graders. Well maybe not that extreme, but children and some adults alike look at us like we must have been the product of some weird CIA genetic experiment to produce human lookout towers in a land of short people.

"Are you from California?" A voice emanates from the sea of dark haired heads that occasionally bounce off our shoulder's and chest's. A man of about 60 years with a kind face and a small boy in tow approaches and again asks Danny if he is from California. Weird...since I know that Danny is in fact from California. The man introduces himself as Diego, a Shamen and maker of plant medicine. He also states that he makes essential oils and invites us back to his home to have a look. Jane looks a bit nervous, but Danny and I disarmed by his age and the cute little boy immediately follow. As we enter the alley Danny turns to Jane and says something to the effect of "Don't worry, Jay and I have knives". I'm not so sure a knife would do much against a gang of short guys who commonly carry 80 pound bags of coffee or bundles of firewood with a single strap of cloth around their forehead. All I can imagine is one of these nipple-height brutes headbutting my chest, cracking my ribcage like a chef expertly splitting an egg, sending me to the ground writhing in pain with a flail chest and quickly developing pneumothorax. Not to mention, I don't think the tiny pocket knife would be much of a match against an angry machete carrying bandito whose natural grip is dangerously near crotch height. I don't know how quickly these statistics were calculated in Danny's mind, but Jane seemed a bit more at ease. I'm sure that is why he brought it up anyway.

Just as my eyes begin to adjust to the low light we arrive at the makeshift rusty steel sheetmetal door of a sad looking adobe structure. Diego pulls the door aside and we step into almost complete smoke filled darkness. My lungs burn with the thick wood smoke and I can barely make out a figure sitting next to the hot coals in a woodstove through my stinging unadjusted pupils. All three of us stand cautiously close to the door with our teary eyes straining to make sense of the space. Diego has disappeared into the darkness apparently in search of something. The sounds of movement in dark corners can barely be perceived over the explosion of fireworks at the festival about a block away.

I’m disoriented in this wildly foreign situation, but I feel no sense of danger, just an extreme sense of curiosity. In previous days I wandered through the streets of San Pedro, occasionally trying to get a peek into similar abodes as I passed by. Although the opportunity has come at an unusual time I finally have a chance to enter the world, if only for a few moments, of one of Guatemala’s poor families.

The lung searing woodsmoke appears to clear as a small flicker appears in the darkness. Diego has reappeared with a tiny candle. He beckons us into one of two tiny rooms adjacent to this main cooking area. He pushes the door in and enters the windowless chamber devoid of light apart from the tiny candle in his hand. The dark mud walls have no reflective quality and the candlelight seems to be quickly consumed by the darkness before reaching the floor or corners. Three little sets of eyes are barely visible behind a line draped with tattered clothes. The eyes approach and soon the candle illuminates the small curious faces of three small children. As my eyes once again become accustomed to this new level of darkness I can see a messy bed resting upon the dirt floor. Apparently excited to share his world Diego produces a didgeridoo and two small drums which he cannot play very well. He then points to two lambskins on the floor and picks up a larger drum frame while explaining his plans to make another larger instrument.

A clean teenage boy enters the room and holds up a scary looking mask of a woman’s face wearing a bad wig in one hand and an ornate headdress in the other, apparently part of the festivities earlier in the day.

Back in the central cooking area (hard to call it a kitchen because it’s missing a wall) we are surrounded by four small children, all very excited to me these giant foreign creatures. We crouch to greet the children and throw a gross feeling ball back and forth, occasionally losing it on the dark dirt floor. Giggles fill the air and the teeth of happy smiles glisten in the candlelight. I can now see the woman sitting by the woodstove, smiling affectionately and laughing softly while she slowly flips tortillas on its inefficient cooking surface. It’s difficult to see if there is much else aside from the flat pieces of bread.

Upon Danny’s request, Diego exits and reappears with a small bottle of oil that he has apparently made. While they are discussing the oil I take the opportunity to peek into the other chamber that joins the kitchen. Aside from another bed on the unfinished floor this room is fairly empty.

All in all this living space is smaller than my condo and there appears to be at least 7 or more people living here. The ceiling made of corrugated steel and tarp-like material is within two inches of my head. Although the smoke has cleared slightly my sinuses continue to react to the impure air. There are no signs of electricity or running water.

Despite these challenges this man is still proud to show us his home. Despite these challenges a simple ball can fill a dark room with laughter of children and adults alike. Despite these challenges, these human struggles, the smile of a happy child will illuminate the darkness…

With Love

Jay

Still in San Pedro

A local guide watering his horse

Our guide on Vulcan San Pedro is trying to learn English and was very proud of his homemade phrasebook shown in the photos below. I love how the English translations are phonetically written in Spanish. Unfortunately he also shared his head cold with me.

The poor families in town still bathe and wash clothes in the lake.

Volcan San Pedro

Here are a few views from Vulcan San Pedro, one of the creators of this beautiful place. I hiked to the summit this past Saturday with a guide and three other women from the school.

Typical Construction in San Pedro

Here are some fun pics for the guys at dBoone. I´m not sure we can compete with these guys!

In Guatemala stick framing takes on a whole new meaning

Can someone check with Rick at Elliot Bay Electric and check to see if these fixtures meet electrical code.

This is a 60 amp breaker in the shower to power the heated shower head

Pictures of San Pedro

Plantains

Coffee Beans Drying

The Washing Machine

Gettin’ Schooled in Guatemala

Rosa´s simple kitchen

Mi Madre en San Pedro

My tutor Ligia

My "Classroom"

Time ticks by like a sixth graders summer vacation. I know my days in San Pedro are numbered and I’m beginning to experience a subtle feeling of resistance toward leaving. I have settled into a comfortable routine in this little city resting on the shores of Lago Atitlan.

Each morning I first awaken around 4:45 a.m. to the choir practice of the resident roosters welcoming the coming sun. Unfortunately I think they forgot to adjust their watches for daylight savings because there incessant cockadoodledooing is about an hour and one half early. The end of the cockadoodledooing heralds the beginning of another choir. Voices accompanied by various instruments echo across the city, reverberating off the concrete structures to fill the entire pueblo with the songs of God. For the next two to three hours all of San Pedro’s deeply religious head to one of the many churches to pray through song.

At exactly 7:15 a.m. Rosa’s soft voice drifts on wisps of wood smoke from her kitchen; “Desayuno Jaime…”. I emerge from my room and enter the kitchen by parting the thin lacey curtain that separates Rosa’s simple cocina from the outside world. I sit opposite Domingo, Rosa’s husband, a kind man of about sixty years who was born and raised in San Pedro. Rosa grew up in Panahajel just on the other side of the lake. It is probably unlikely that either of them have ever traveled more than 75 miles from this place.

I sit down to the “American” breakfast that has been prepared just for me; pancakes, honey, yogurt, and a pile of fruit large enough to fulfill my weekly recommended intake of fiber. Domingo munches away on a handful of shrimp in some kind of soup base with a basket of freshly made tortillas. All of this food is expertly prepared on a wood fired cook top in Rosa’s tiny stand alone kitchen. Initially I had a feeling of disappointment at not being served something more “Authentic”, but then again I LOVE pancakes, and the thought of shrimp cocktail on an already sensitive morning stomach somehow does not seem that appealing.

Conversation at the table lasts for two to three minutes when my three year old child vocabulary reaches its limit. The exchange of warm glances and smiles replaces vocal communication for the rest of the meal apart from a few mmmm’s (this is good) and the four or five times I look at my food and then at Rosa remarking “me gusta mucho” in an effort to communicate how much I appreciate her excellent cooking.

Usually Domingo will ask a question that I don’t understand and during my struggle to communicate he will reassure me in a warm grandfatherly tone “un poco…un poco…un poco Jaime” (a little..alittle…baby steps James). These folks will receive about $60 US of the money I paid to attend the school, not much to us, but significant to them and their five children. Despite the money they receive, their investment in taking great care of students is obvious.

Spanish class begins at 8:00 a.m. Calling it a class may be a little misleading; conjuring images of 10-20 people sitting in a bland classroom repeating phrases like sheep baahhing together in unison. Bahh…baahh…baaahhh! Nope, in this class there is no Bah…bah and it’s anything but blah. I sit across a small table from my private tutor, Ligia, underneath a small thatched roof cabana centered in a large well manicured garden with views of the lake and volcanoes in the distance. This is just one of 15 or 20 such “classrooms”, each with a private Spanish lesson. Ligia and I spend the next four hours making teeny little baby steps into my comprehension of the Spanish language and sipping the free local coffee provided by La Escuela de Cooperativa. We often use our families as subjects of conversation, but at the end of four hours I can’t even remember the names of my own family members. “Mi hermana se llama…blank…blank…blank (what is my sister’s name? I used to know…) I begin to stare blankly and it is obvious that my brain cell has reached full capacity for the day.

1:00 off to another awesome meal with my host family, usually a meat dish with a nice pile of vegetables and, of course, MUCHAS tortillas. I’m going to get fat if I stay here too long.

Rosa and her daughter will infrequently allow me to help clean up, but after two times of me assisting I have come to conclude that they are just satisfying some need I have to contribute.

The town of San Pedro is one of about 6 towns resting on the edge of Lago Atitlan, nestled in the shadow of a ring of volcanoes. The town has approximately 13,000 residents of which something like 96% are of Mayan descent. According to the school, almost 65% of these residents are below the poverty level. This obviously does not include all of the expat Euros who own all of the touristy restaurants. Steep cobblestone streets wander through the city eventually terminating at the lake, where tens of small ferry boats wait to shuttle passengers to the other settlements around the body of water. In the same construction style as Mexico most buildings are made of concrete block with the rebar still sticking out of the upper stories. Roofs are generally corrugated steel held in place with a few nails and some concrete blocks tossed up there to keep it from flapping in the wind. I still have not figured out why they don’t cut the rebar, although in my house it does offer a convenient place to tie a clothesline. The really poor people live in adobe structures or homes with cornstalk walls and other found materials for their roofs. Almost every structure is concrete color which accentuates the dramatically colorful dress of the women and older men. Motorcycles dwarfed by our huge machines (small in the US) zip up and down the circuitous cobble streets and alleys, often with a finely dressed woman riding sidesaddle on the back of the tiny seat. This city is poor, but it has an air of tranquility especially among its adult residents.

Dinner at 6:30. Another huge meal. Tonight I tried to offer my help in the kitchen. Rosa handed me some dough and demonstrated how to make a tortilla. Simple enough…right? Lots of laughs and about a half hour later the score was Rosa:50, Jay:0. My score should probably have been negative since the only one close to completion ended up on the concrete floor. Not to worry though, it still ended up on the table! How can it look so easy??

Out to the internet café and then off to bed to once again lie awake and listen to the sound of musical prayer echoing through the streets.

The music fades as slowly drift into the dreamworld. And then it begins… The gangs emerge from the dimly lit alleys of the sleepy little city looking to defend their turf to the death. At first there is a guttural growl and then the deathmatch begins. The perros are out for blood, or at least a good shouting match! A Jets verses Sharks style gang battle ensues, each side barking and growling their fight song in turn louder and louder until one side flees with their tails between their legs, ears floppy, and their heads hung low, singing a soft song of defeat. Just like in West Side Story there seems to be lots of bark and usually no bight; these perros don’t want to mess up their groovy hairdos. Once in a while a casualty will appear on the side of the road. Apparently he fell in love with the wrong Chihuahua!

All this excitement for only $150 US…I think I’ll stay another week!

I miss you all.

Love

Jay

Not bad for a $5 hotel room

No More Driving In Mexico

We arrived at the border shortly after Mexican Customs opened their doors with the intention of having our passports stamped and checking our bikes out of the country. Since we had imported vehicles it was required for us to prove that we had not sold them while in the country and cancel our temporary import permits. If you remember, I lost my temporary import permit about a week earlier which resulted in “una problema pequeno” at the border. Fortunately I had the window sticker that corresponded to the permit and they were able to locate my file in their computer system. Unfortunately the guy who could resolve the situation was not going to be in for a few days. Apparently it’s no big deal to leave the country without cancelling the permit if you never want to import a vehicle into the country again. So I was faced with an illusion of choice; hang out in this crappy border town and wait to see if this guy comes back or drive out of the country and never plan on driving my own vehicle in Mexico again. When I was leaving the US everyone said “this is a once in a lifetime experience” so I took all of your good advice and headed for the border! Besides, home is almost 5000 miles away and an airplane seat is waaayy (even those teeny ones on the cheapo airlines) more comfortable than the plank I have been straddling for the last 2 weeks…

I expected to be held up at the Guatemalan border for hours. Central American countries are notorious for having border crossings that are a royal pain in the ass, taking as much as 7 hours to navigate the bribes and bureaucratic bullshit. A half our later and ten bucks lighter we were on our way. My butt is spared for another day…

Guatemala es muy bonita. Every time I enter a border town I can’t help but wonder why so many Americans visit Tijuana. Border towns always seem to be in complete chaos. If you want to get picpocketed, run over by a driver who thinks there are no rules, solicited nonstop by beggars, venders, or money changers, or die from asthma attack inducing smog, then by all means hang out in one of these zones of insanity. As soon as I see an opening in the crowded streets I wind through the gears as fast as possible looking for the welcoming “Feliz Viaje” sign indicating that I’m leaving. As soon as I pass that beautiful sign the chaotic border society disappears and endless curves through impossibly steep mountain valleys begin carrying us up higher and higher to the highest point on the Interamerican highway (somewhere around 9000 feet).

Miles pass quickly in a country about the size North Carolina on our way to one of the country’s national treasures, Lago de Atitlan. Small huts and farms with terraced fields dot the impressively steep hillsides with only foot paths for access. Tarps line the rain gutters on the edges of the autopista covered with drying coffee beans, apparently taking advantage of the heat given off by the asphalt during the day. My romantic image of coffee beans drying on a plantation in a spectacular setting and then making their way to my favorite Seattle café will forever be changed. Next time you stop at the local Dunkin Donuts take a good look at the parking lot because those tasty beans may have come from a very similar location, oil stains, diesel soot, and all…oh and maybe a little donkey doo as well! That being said, the coffee con leche I’m now sipping is one of the best I have ever had!

Twenty five miles of wandering poorly maintained roads led us from the Autopista to our home for the next week, San Pedro la Laguna on the shore of Lago de Atitlan. The serpentine road slithered its way through a few tiny villages and then steeply up and over a mountain top. As I rolled over the crest I felt that same sensation I get when my ski tips hover for a split second on a mountain cornice, a momentary feeling of weightlessness combined with a hint of nausea; that nanosecond where the transition is so steep that you cannot see what is ahead except for the thousands of feet of air between you and the valley below. Breath escaped me as my mind began to comprehend both the extraordinarily steep road ahead and the fantastic splendor of Mother Earth’s creation before my eyes. Steep volcanic mountainsides cradled a perfect dark blue lake speckled with small cities. A deep blue sky with scattered puffs of fluffy cotton blanketed the dormant volcanic creators of this magnificent piece of art.

Hairpin, slower than first gear, turns led us into the well traveled but still somewhat culturally indigenous city of San Padro. After checking in at the spanish school, we headed to a nearby hotel for the afternoon and night. For the equivalent of $5 US each we had separate rooms and a shared porch with hammocks on the 4th floor of one of the tallest buildings. “Now this is what I’m talking about!” is all I could say to Jamal as I swung lazily in the hammock. My rear, neck, and back welcome that change. After one night in this place we will be living with separate families for the remainder of our stay.

This is also one of our first destinations that receives a fair bit of tourist traffic resulting in a corresponding change in culture. The eating establishments are designed for tourists and small souvenir stands purvey interesting handmade trinkets meant to catch the eye of the passing tourista. Women approach the tables at the eating establishments attempting to sell homemade breads and scarves to the diners. Just up the road in “el centro” a strong local market still exists once again indicating that the local traditions and ways of living are still strong even in this city experiencing the trickling flow of western commercial culture.

It is comforting yet discomforting to be around people that look like me once more. When there are few gringos around the locals approach with friendly curiosity rather than an agenda to sell us a hotel, tour, food, or some item that we can bring home to our families. Jamal has great difficulty with this cultural shift to extract as much money as possible from the different looking visitors, becoming slightly frustrated by the marketing techniques of the locals. He thinks, and I agree, that in some ways the culture begins to suffer under the influence of tourism and the impact of commercialism slowly oozing its way around the world. These pressures also seem to cause a corresponding increase in the petty crime rate, which I attribute somewhat to the huge discrepancy in wealth when people of greater means visit the homelands of people with no wealth by modern standards. For example, last night we were relieved of everything that was not removed or permanently attached to our bikes. The thieves absconded with a tarp, a couple cans of lube, a tire pressure gauge, and a broken bike pump; a reminder that even things that believe to have little value to us may have great value to others. I shrugged my shoulders and let it go. I am working hard to believe that all people, especially here, are surviving in the best way they know how. The salespeople on the streets are merely trying to survive or perhaps their understanding of what it means to survive has been altered by our influence. For me, thievery definitely crosses a moral line almost regardless of your need, but I won’t ever allow myself to lose respect for this place or its people because of the actions of a few misguided teens.

As one passing white guy said, “this is an easy place to get lost for a while”. With its rich natural and cultural beauty and the fact that you can live on 125 dollars a week I’m beginning to see what he means…

Thanks for reading

Love Jay

Comitan

From Common to Cosmopolitan

Comitan Mexico, about an hour away from San Cristobal, stands in sharp contrast to the terrain and culture we encountered during previous days. There are no dogs, no donkeys, no mules, no machetes wielded by strong weathered hands, no huts built with found materials, no women washing clothes in the nearby river. Instead of dogs and donkeys milling about on the street corners there are mariachis and works of art intelligently placed about the city plaza. Young smart looking men carry laptops and cell phones in their well manicured clean hands. Fantastic pieces of immaculately cared for architecture surround a beautiful central square. Hundreds of stylishly dressed young men and women stroll about; perhaps on their way to one of the many quaint outdoor cafés encircling the central plaza. Lovers hold each other closely on park benches, each staring deeply into the eyes of the other, exchanging sweet words of warm affection under the cool darkening sky. The sound of the mariachis tuning their guitars fuels the developing energy of a Friday night.

A short walk from the square reveals that much of the original culture still exists behind this image. Within a few blocks expensive boutiques and salons are replaced by shops selling saddles for donkeys and Columbian made machetes. Women carrying baskets full of baked items on their heads amble to the market a few blocks from the square. Within just a few miles of the city limits indigenous folks draw water from wells with buckets and tend to their flocks of sheep along the roadside.

These contrasts give this country a rich sense of character. The stark contrast of peoples and environments is astoundingly beautiful. True, it is difficult to see so many people living in impoverished conditions, but they do so with great grace and strength. Sometimes it is hard to tell who are the haves and who are the have nots…

More views of Comitan

Here are some views of Tehuantepec in Oaxaca state

Arrived in Tehuantepec late this afternoon. The last few days have been backbreaking long rides through beautiful coastal terrain. Tomorrow we will be on our way toward San Cristobal and then making our way to San Pedro de la Laguna in Guatemala for 1 week of intensive spanish tutoring. I'm so looking forward to the break. I'll write some more soon when I'm well rested.

Take Care

Love

Jay

Darth Ramada

Lush plantations of banana and coconut trees lined our route as we left Cihuatlan early in the a.m.. We planned on stopping for breakfast shortly after leaving town, but as usual it was hard to justify slowing the momentum once we hit fifth gear. We emerged from the fruit filled forest onto a twisty highway reminiscent of the California coastal route. Our bikes shifted from right to left and left to right for over 100 miles as we navigated the serpentine road along a pristine coastline yet untouched by the throes of Hyatt and Hilton imperialism. Structures with thatched roofs and wooden walls weaved like intricate baskets occasionally appeared in small villages accompanied by the smell of wood smoke for cooking fires. These little outposts almost always have a few streetside vendors selling bags of oysters and other shellfish that they have collected along the coast.

I am developing a deep appreciation for the resourcefulness of the people in this country. They have the ability to find or grow their own food, build their own homes, and find something that they can bring to market. They are poor…that is obvious… they lead there donkeys to feed on the grass at the edge of highways, they burn trash on the side of the road to dispose of it, they generally have no cars, but their lives are a beautiful thing to behold. I wonder if I could survive in their shoes. Would I have the capacity to make an existence out of nothing? Could I live as people did 200 years ago and with the machines of modern day race by as I purvey my wares on the side of the highway? These people seem to have an uncommon strength of will that probably exists as a small seed within all of us. The circumstances of life determine whether or not seed grows into a vibrant tree or remains dormant until needed.

200 miles later our bikes were whining for fuel and our stomachs growled with anger for not being fed. We stopped in the small beach town of Playa Azul. A few street vendors trying to make a few bucks off the obviously small number of tourists sold swimsuits and floaty toys that would be sure to get your child killed in the huge surf that was crashing on the nearby beach. After having our usual lunch of meat and corn we set a heading for Ixtapa. The road leaving Play Azul showed the beginning signs of the infiltration of the resort imperialists. Road improvements and the construction of rest areas foretell of changes to come to this place. Empty coastal properties dotted with coconut trees and thatched huts had shingles hung on posts bearing the words “SE Vende” (for sale). I couldn’t help but think I was witnessing the beginning of the end for this place. If I returned in ten years would the pollo asado stand be there? Would I still be able to see the ocean from the road? Or will this place be filled with BMW’s, Outback Steakhouses, Pizza Joints, Jewelry stores, and everything else that makes Cancun a coastal subsidiary of Las Vegas? I wondered if I might one day return and be one of those dads or grandfathers that tell one of those “I remember when…” stories to a bored looking teenager.